


let's live suddenly, without thinking

by andawaywego



Category: Glee
Genre: Explicit Sexual Content, F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-12
Updated: 2015-02-12
Packaged: 2018-03-12 01:40:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,574
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3339158
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/andawaywego/pseuds/andawaywego
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>'Part of you wants to apologize for what you'd said, for being so blunt. you sort of want to say you didn't mean it even though you did, but you don't even get the chance because she's saying, "I'm…Quinn…I need to know…I need you to tell me if you…have…any kind of romantic feelings for…for me."' Faberry.</p>
            </blockquote>





	let's live suddenly, without thinking

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own any of the characters herein, nor do I own Rachel and Quinn's affinity for conversations in restrooms.
> 
> Pairing(s): Faberry is what's focused on, but Finchel is also a running theme.
> 
> Spoilers: Through Season 3, up to Heart—immediately after which, this takes place—but honestly, the stuff that's mentioned, you should know already. If you don't, I am sad for you.
> 
> A/N: I have no idea why this exists, but apparently it does and now it's on the internet. So, here you go. Let me know what you think.  
> A/N 2: Posting my stories from FanFiction.net here slowly. So this is one of them.

..

let's live suddenly without thinking

.

You manage to make it to the bathroom before the first tears start to fall. You're surprised because you'd been fighting the urge to break down and weep all day, but you were actually able to fight it. Still, sometime after the balloons fall from the ceiling—after the three or four cups of punch you're sure Puck spiked—your eyes found her through the mess of happy, dancing people. She was laughing with Finn's arms around her and his mouth was near her ear and you just couldn't.

The bathroom is empty—what with everyone in the main part of the restaurant enjoying themselves—and you're more than grateful for it. You lean heavily against the porcelain sink and sigh, trying hard not to think about her dancing out there with his ring on her finger. You let yourself wonder if she saw you slip in here, if she even cares, and the thought is so sharp, it hurts you. You gasp for breath and clench your eyes shut, waiting for it to pass.

When you finally catch your breath, you open your eyes and look down at the floor, at the off-white tiles stretching across the length of the bathroom, trying to convince yourself that you're strong enough to get over her. Hell, you've already gone through this once—when you found out she actually slept with Finn. Watching her get married to him will be worse, yes, but at least you've been here before in some way. You're prepared for the pain that comes with it; the guilt over not convincing her to rethink her decisions, the praying for God to just make all of this love stop.

She's made her bed and you know that she'll have to lie in it, or you'd go back outside and put an end to this. You'd press yourself into her and kiss her and tell her all those things that you never had the guts to—

"Please don't marry Finn. I'm so sorry for everything I ever did to you. I don't know why I did it. Maybe just because I was so angry from loving you that I thought hurting you would convince me to stop. But all I've ever wanted to do was hold you and love you because I know that you could just fix me, my whole life. I just feel like we can't control whatever this is, so we're letting it scare us. We're touching it and getting afraid and then running away and pretending it never happened. We're always doing that and I just want it to stop and I know that you do too. But you can't marry Finn, okay? You just can't."

You readjust your hands on the edge of the sink, still staring at the tiles and thinking of her because it's almost like it's the only thing you're capable of these days.

Whether it's the smudged eyeliner, still wet with tears, or the loneliness that feels like it's absolutely devouring you from the inside out whispering that you're doomed to die alone, devoured by your twenty cats in an empty, nursing-home smelling living room is anyone's guess. It doesn't really matter, either way, you suppose, because whichever way you look at this, you're alone and crying in a bathroom at a party on Valentine's Day. You don't even want to think about how pathetic that is.

You hear someone approach the door over the sound of the music and you hastily wipe your teary eyes with the back of your hand. You know who it is before the door opens, letting the sound of the music and fifty different happy conversations drift in and just as soon silencing them. You don't look up, just sniffle unhappily and wait for the awkwardness of discovering someone crying to descend. You wait for her to ask you if you're okay, or what's wrong—wait for her offer of comfort.

Her questions never come and you're so, so grateful. You don't even know the answers to those questions and, even if you'd given false ones, they would have convinced no one.

You hear footsteps approach you and she puts a hand on your shoulder with a quiet, "Hey," that you don't return.

She doesn't ask if you're okay as you wipe away another tear. She just rubs her thumb in a circle on your bare shoulder and asks if you want to talk about it—a question that is certainly a first.

But you don't want to. You can't yet. Not with her. So you shake your head and try to explain that you're still trying to figure it out yourself, but the words get jumbled as they leave your mouth.

She doesn't question it or scoff, but sort of smiles (it's such a Rachel thing to do and your heart just hurts).

"Take your time," she tells you, nodding a couple of times to assure you that she means it.

You look at your reflection with wide eyes because no one—no one—has ever said that before to you. And you feel a little better. But then you turn and look at her and it's gone

She's a little bit blurry, which you think must be because of the punch, so you squint and pull your hands off the sink, wiping your palms on your dress.

You're being stupid.

It's a well-known fact now that she's marrying him, and, yeah, okay, you have a right to be surprised because you'd very clearly stated why she shouldn't. Twice. But apparently none of that matters now because his ring is on her finger and in a few months she'll be Mrs. Hudson.

She's marrying him and planning their future together and you're being comforted by her in the bathroom where she found you wilted like a dying flower against the sink.

Time is spinning around you, the past and the present and the future you'd always wanted tearing apart and dissipating to include the reality that's suddenly forcing itself on you. You remember the plaid headband she'd been wearing the first time you saw her and the moment when everything just stopped because she was going to be his forever. You recall the feeling of having lost absolutely everything—first felt when your daughter was pulled from your arms and dropped into someone else's—and you recognize it again as it seeps into your head, your heart, the fingers you're letting her slip right through.

Because you'd told her that she should break up with him, told her that she had to. You'd told her because you knew that—with him there—her vision is clouded, her dreams fading into the past and because you knew that if she was yours, you'd never have allowed that to happen. You would make sure that she put her dreams before you, even though you love her more than anything else in your life right now, which is utterly and completely ridiculous because—

"Quinn?"

Soft fingers brush against your arm and you meet her eyes, biting your lip as her worried eyes meet yours.

"Are you going to be okay?" she asks.

You don't actually have an answer for that so you shrug and send a smile at her, but it's small and insincere.

She takes a breath like you've made her nervous—you have—and steps forward until she's right beside you, mimicking your faraway gaze that's settled on tiles spread in front of you.

"I'm sorry," she mumbles into the quiet, her voice breaking up the silence that's all around you.

You don't look at her and your voice is bitter. "For what?"

She's looking at you. You can feel it, but you keep your eyes straight forward, far away from her and him and this pain that's becoming you. "I…I always seem to be asking you for advice and then…not taking it," she explains.

You nod once. "Yeah," you say and she's right.

Things would be so much easier if she would just listen to you for once.

But Rachel Berry never does anything the easy way.

Her hand is on your arm again, lingering there, warmth mingling between her skin and yours. You want to tell her, then, because you're alone and you can hear music and laughter just outside the door and just knowing that she's with you rather than her fiancé right now is enough to almost break your resolve. And you just really want to tell her something that will make everything inside of her drop—like she did when she came in with her stilted, "Finn…asked me to marry him,"—and you know what you should say, if that's the reaction you want, but you don't.

She pulls her hand away, finally realizing that you won't be returning any friendly gestures she should send your way at the moment. You feel her take a step back and you know that, even if you don't say what you want to, you have to say something or she'll go back out there and be with him and you honestly couldn't handle that right now.

"Why did you say yes?" is the first thing that comes to mind and you turn to meet her wide eyes as your words reverberate inside your head.

Her mouth forms a tight line and you can tell that she's thinking of something to say. That's the thing—she shouldn't have to think of answer. She should already have one.

"Because he loves me," is what she comes up with a few seconds later. You quirk an eyebrow and turn away. "He does, Quinn." She sounds more agitated now, like she's trying so hard to convince both of you with her words.

You shrug. "I'm not saying he doesn't." You let that settle in before throwing in, "But you should have more reasons than just that."

Apparently she doesn't have a rebuttal because she's quiet after that and, when you gather enough courage to glance her way again, her eyes are shimmering with tears.

You always seem to end up here with her.

And you're just so sick and tired of porcelain and cold, metal stalls and how the fluorescent lights are always humming above the two of you while you ignore the messy world outside the door. So you turn and you leave the restroom without another word—leave her behind in favor of pushing the door open and shoving your way through the crowd until you're outside. It's cold and you don't have your coat, so you wrap your arms around yourself and fight the urge to shiver.

"Shit," you whisper, more for the act of saying something than for the word itself. It's the first thing that comes to mind and you shake your head and stare out at the darkened street.

This is all her fault.

Her and her stupid, "Yes, I'll marry you."

"I hate her," you tell the night, but even you aren't convinced. You wonder why, of all the people you've surrounded yourself with, you just had to fall in love with her.

Your heart just hurts.

The door opens behind you and you almost take a couple of steps forward, just because you need to get away from her, but you fight the urge and stay where you are.

She's so close, but you don't look at her. You keep your eyes forward, and part of you wants to apologize for what you'd said, for being so blunt. You sort of want to say that you didn't mean it even though you did, but you don't even get the chance because she's saying, "I'm…Quinn…" She takes a deep breath and gathers herself. "I need to know…I need you to tell me if you…have…any kind of romantic feelings for…for me."

You freeze, but not because of the cold air. You freeze because you have no idea where this is coming from. You're not even really sure that you're awake anymore.

You're too busy hesitating to tell her the truth.

("I do. I love you, Rachel. Please don't marry him.")

She's still going, either way.

"I know that…maybe I'm imagining things, but…the way you…look at me, Quinn. I-I feel it and I know…We're-I could be imagining it, yes, but…I don't think that I a—" She freezes and shakes her head, averting her eyes. "And Finn and I are getting married in just a few months unless you…" She stops for breath and crosses her arms over her stomach in a gesture that screams of insecurity. "No. I'm not making this decision or-or changing my choice because of you. I just…I deserve to know."

You are more fractured than you were before which maybe you thought was impossible. Apparently it wasn't.

You want to tell her that, no, you don't have feelings for her and that she can marry whoever she damn well pleases, but you can't say that because it isn't true. Still, she's standing there, awkwardly shifting her weight around and you know that you have to say or do something, even if you don't necessarily want to.

Maybe it's her words. Maybe it's her eyes and how they're holding your gaze despite the fact that they're filling with tears. Maybe it's the fact that you never expected to have this conversation with her. Whatever it is, something inside of you cracks, the sound echoing through your chest and pumping through your veins with your blood and, before you know it, you're pulling her forward by her hand, bringing her forward until she's pressed, flush, against you.

Her wide eyes are filled with surprise and searching your face for an explanation for your actions. There is none. At least, none other than this desire and love and pain and lack of oxygen that's been suffocating you for years. This is the only thing you can possibly do to keep from dying right now, right this second.

You lean down, brush your lips against her ear. "Don't marry Finn, Rachel," you whisper, her hair moving with your words and tickling your lips.

"W-why?"

As if it's possible, her voice sounds almost as broken as yours does.

Your emotions are conflicting, fighting against each other as they break through your chest and try to climb out of your throat, try to make themselves known. They're contradicting—the fear and the love and the loneliness—and they collide with a shaky breath and an echo of your heart crashing through your chest. You have to tell her now because, if you don't, you know what will happen. She'll go back inside and in a few months she'll become someone else's wife. They'll graduate and her and Finn will move to New York and live happily ever after and you'll become a memory that no one wants to remember so you've got to—

You press your hips into hers and, when she whimpers, you know that you need to rein yourself in—stop this before things get out of hand.

But you don't.

Instead, you twist her around until you're pressing her back against the brick wall beside the door, attaching your lips to her neck as she wraps her arms around your waist, drawing you impossibly closer. She turns her head, exposing more of her neck to your mixture of biting and sucking and it's simultaneously everything you imagined it would be and nothing like your fantasies.

One of her legs hikes up around yours, her smooth, bare skin pressing against your own. She takes your hand and guides it to her thigh, moaning breathily into your ear when you gain enough courage to explore on your own.

You grip her hip with your free hand, squeezing lightly and rubbing small circles through her dress with your thumb. She moans again and rolls her hips into yours until you slip a thigh between her legs. Everything freezes for a brief moment, and then she presses herself against your thigh slowly, unsurely, and then again, more deliberately this time.

All of the sudden, you can't think and you pause, pulling back to watch her slowly grind herself against you. She uses your hesitation to her advantage and buries her fingers in your hair, pulling your head down until it's against her neck again. She scrapes her nails against the back of your neck and you groan into her skin at the sensation.

She guides your hand again a second later, leading it higher up her thigh until the skirt of her dress is bunched up around her waist. "Quinn…" She's begging. You can tell by her tone and the realization shoots warmth straight through you. "Please." She pushes your hand again, brings it higher until you can feel the waistband of her underwear brush against your fingertips. You can feel the heat from it already and you bite your lip to keep from groaning aloud, because this is the exact kind of heat that is burning you from the inside out.

"Rachel," you breathe, your teeth and lips finding her ear.

Your fingers find their way inside of her and she gasps, fingernails digging into your bare shoulders so hard that you know they'll leave a mark. For all your fantasies, you never imagined how tight she'd be or how amazing her voice would sound as she panted your name—occasionally mixing it with a, "please," or an, "Oh my God."

You can tell that she's trying to be quiet, trying to catch her words before they leave her mouth in the breaks between her labored breathing. Still, every so often, she'll let loose a quiet groan or cry that bangs around in your mind and you're absolutely positive that someone will hear her and come out to investigate.

You quicken your pace a little, just to see if she'll be able to keep her groans quiet even as she's nearing the brink, and she clenches her eyes shut. You moan into her ear as she digs her nails into the nape of your neck again, mimicking the sound just as your thumb finds her clit. She gasps and presses her forehead against yours, panting against your lips.

The world disappears around you and you don't think of the party going on so close, how Finn is inside awaiting his fiancée's return, or the diamond ring on her left hand. You don't think about it because your fingers are pumping in and out of her and she's shivering around them and whimpering quietly, moaning your name into your ear.

You grip her waist with your free hand and wish that you had more than this—more than stolen moments away from everyone else. More than anything, you wish she was yours.

You slow down a tad and lessen some of the pressure on her clit so that she opens her eyes and looks at you. Now that you have her attention, you regain your tempo, getting a loud moan of surprise from her. You press your lips against the side of her jaw as she shudders around you in release, gasping out an, "Oh, fuck…Quinn," which is just so beautiful because you're the cause of that reaction.

Her nails dig further into your shoulders and her eyes clench shut, mouth open as she bucks her hips once more and then relaxes in your arms.

You linger for a moment, unwilling to let her go back to being not yours. Eventually, though, you have to release her because, as much as you want to, you can't stay here with her forever.

You press one last kiss to her neck before you pull your hand away, wiping your fingers on the bottom of your dress. You step back and she straightens herself up, shame in her eyes rather than lust, as she readjusts her belt and smoothes out her dress.

She buttons up her red coat and looks at you like you're absolutely breaking her heart—which is fitting, you think, because she's doing the same to you. You're not prepared when she kisses you, arms around your neck, just like you weren't prepared when she'd asked you if you had feelings for her, when she told you Finn had proposed.

Something inside you clicks into place and shatters all at once when she tears her soft, perfect lips from yours. She steps back, away from you and licks her lips, eyes still glued to yours. A shadow passes over her face as she takes a step back towards the door, but when it passes, she's smiling at you just like she used to. Except that it isn't like she used to because there's something in her eyes—the memory of what's just gone on playing through them as you watch—and suddenly it's completely unfamiliar.

You're waiting for it when you hear the click of the door behind her. Like the squeak of a floorboard outside your room in the middle of the night. The safety of a gun. The dial tone after a phone call. Solemn and conclusive.

You look back out at the empty street and take a deep breath. You never actually told her that you're in love with her, but maybe that's not as important, because you're not really that cold now anyway.

.

fin

..

**Author's Note:**

> references.
> 
> let's live suddenly without thinking by e.e. cummings


End file.
